This year’s garden taught me more about failure than success, which might be the most valuable lesson of all.
The wins were predictable: arugula that sprouted fast and bitter, kale that shrugged off late frosts, basil that filled the air with that green-sweet smell every time I brushed past. These are the forgiving crops, the ones that seem to grow despite my best efforts to mess things up.
But the tomatoes—two healthy plants that produced exactly five tomatoes between them—those were a different story. Same with the peppers that flowered hopefully but never set fruit, and the cucumbers that started strong then yellowed and gave up. I kept watering, kept waiting, kept checking for some sign of the abundance I’d imagined when planting.
The problem wasn’t neglect. I’d spent weeks clearing brush from what I thought would be a sunny spot, hauling away years of accumulated cedar branches and pine needles. But clearing brush isn’t the same as understanding what’s left behind. The soil beneath all that forest debris was still forest soil—acidic from decades of cedar duff, rich in organic matter but wrong for vegetables that want neutral ground and eight hours of direct sun.
Even after the clearing, the plot caught only afternoon light; the remaining trees claimed the morning. Tomatoes and peppers are sun worshippers from warmer climates; they need heat and brightness to transform flowers into fruit. What I’d given them was woodland conditions with good intentions.
The arugula and kale didn’t mind. They’re cool-season crops that actually prefer some shade, descended from hardy plants that grow wild in difficult places. They took what the garden offered and made the most of it. The basil surprised me—herbs often adapt better than vegetables, and this one seemed content with morning sun and cedar-scented soil.
Failure in the garden is just information delivered slowly. The plants that struggled were telling me about pH levels, light conditions, and soil composition more accurately than any test kit. Next year I’ll listen better: more greens and herbs, maybe some shade-tolerant root vegetables. Or I’ll build raised beds filled with imported soil, though part of me appreciates the honesty of working with what I have.
There’s something satisfying about a harvest that matches the land rather than fighting it. The arugula went into salads with a peppery bite that seemed to hold the forest’s sharpness. The kale lasted well into winter, tough and sweet after frost. The basil made pesto that tasted like summer mornings in the mountains.
Five tomatoes, carefully savored, taught me more about place than fifty might have.